


If there's no one beside you (when your soul embarks)

by tobeferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Swearing, mention of alcoholism, mention of bullets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 14:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16788904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeferre/pseuds/tobeferre
Summary: Lifetimes later, the Les Amis reunite—but a certain leader in red is nowhere to be found, and Grantaire finds himself desperately missing him.





	If there's no one beside you (when your soul embarks)

**Author's Note:**

> EDITED: I wrote this two years ago for a friend and decided to post it! Based loosely on this anon prompt I came across: http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/post/149829878161/i-just-really-need-a-reincarnation-au-where. (That's not my blog, I just saw the prompt!)
> 
> I tried to do the link thing but it's not working ;_; so have the url instead sorry
> 
> (Title from the exr national anthem)

When Grantaire stops short in the middle of his speech for the fifth time tonight, it’s tempting to just sit down, forget about this entire business, and order himself a drink because _honestly, what the hell does he think he’s doing_?

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, and scrubs at his curls in frustration. “I’m out of it tonight, the meeting ends here. We’ll see you all again next week, but for today, knock yourselves out, yeah?”

“Same time, same place?” Someone calls from the back—one of the newbies he hasn’t gotten to know yet, but it’s not like he hasn’t been _trying_ —and he nods, trying for a smile he knows isn’t going to come off as genuine. “We’re open to new topics of discussion, so feel free to bring your suggestions. We’ll get round to them sooner or later.”

There’s a general chorus of _okays_ and _sures_ before the scraping sounds of chairs being noisily pushed back fills the air and people start streaming out, one by one. Grantaire slowly makes his way to one of the back tables and sits, watches them chatter and laugh among themselves as they file through the doorway.

(He tries not to look like he’s staring—like he couldn’t care less who walks through that door.)

Someone sits down beside him, sets down a glass of something on the table in front of him. Without looking, Grantaire reaches for it and takes a sip. Lemonade.

“He’s not going to come no matter how hard you stare, you know,” Joly says, as the last of the stragglers step into the snow outside, letting the door slam blessedly shut before all the warmth seeps out the doorway. The laughter fades into the distance, and Grantaire lets his eyes drop from the café entrance, takes another gulp of the lemonade and wishes it was something much, much stronger.

“Don’t I know it.”

*

Joly and Bossuet already have plans that don’t involve them leaving the Musain anytime soon, so Grantaire walks home alone, hands in his pockets to stay warm and his beanie pulled low over his ears to keep out the cold.

Another time, another place, he’d be stumbling along the pavement, a beer clutched in his hand, laughing at nothing. The emptiness of it still pulls at him, a bit. He can remember it so clearly on nights like these, when everything is quiet and contemplative and still and even the roads are silent. How it felt, to live that way.

(How it felt, to live on cynicism and desperation, to believe in hell and not heaven, to tip his throat back and watch the stars burn themselves into nothing against the inky backdrop of the night sky—to watch the spirit of revolution spring to life around him and never, _ever_ , join in.)

As he lets himself into his apartment, his fingers find the spot on his chest out of habit, the one from that other time and place, right over his heart.

He can still feel that final bullet.

*

It was easy enough to find the others.

When Grantaire’d first actually walked into the café on the corner of the street where the barricade had been, all those years ago—really walked into it, instead of just staring at the sign above the door trying to muster the courage to step inside—Combeferre had already been there, already been smiling over a mug of steaming cocoa, looking for all the world like he’d been expecting him. “Hello, R. Long time no see.”

Courfeyrac had been next, pulling him into an enthusiastic hug after entering a few weeks later, and Marius had stumbled in an hour later the same day, looking as dazed and as confused as he always had; Joly and Bossuet had tumbled in together (because, even in the next life over, they were still joined at the hip and completely inseparable); Bahorel had come in roaring about a fight on the next corner and looking overjoyed to see the bunch of them all sitting together, Feuilly beaming in delight a few days later, Jehan with a book of poetry under their arm and their cheeks flushed from the cold that winter three years ago.

Of course they all remembered. Of course they all did.

(And it was hard to miss the sign outside the door, _NEW ACTIVIST SOCIETY LES AMIS DE L’ ABC LOOKING FOR MEMBERS_ signed with a swooping capital _R._ )

 _“I still can’t believe you’re the one who got us all here,”_ Courfeyrac jokes sometimes, _“it’s like you’re our new leader or something.”_

 _“I’m not,”_ Grantaire said the first time, easy smile, no bitterness. It’s been easier this lifetime to grin like he’s happy, to reach for a glass of something other than whiskey; it was easy to say, _“I’m just holding the place until our_ real _leader comes in.”_

Somewhere in the three years since he’s started the club, he’s gotten used to conducting the meetings they have, the routine familiar and solid to hold on to. New members come in almost every month, usually by word-of-mouth or the Internet, and he’s too busy to drink, now—too busy remembering names and drawing up plans, his friends at his side, remembering that they’re all in this together.

(He keeps his eyes on the door, still. Waits for a glimpse of golden curls and blue eyes and a red coat, all too conscious of what this represents—of what it will look like to the only person who matters where _Les Amis_ is concerned.)

Courfeyrac’s joke stopped being funny, after nearly four years.

*

“You’re doing it again,” Eponine says one night from her perch on the kitchen counter.

It’s a small apartment; the living room and kitchen are all crammed together into one tiny space, but that hasn’t fazed Eponine. She’s done wonders with it since they moved in. (It’d been easy enough to find Eponine; he’d been fifteen years old on the corner store, buying a pack of cigarettes with a fake ID—she’d eyed him over the top of a cup of coffee and raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t surprised at all. _“About time, R.”_ )

It’s started to feel like home.

“I’m not,” Grantaire says automatically, and Eponine snorts into the beer she’s holding, kicks her feet backwards against the kitchen counter in an exasperated gesture.

“You have a _specific face_ you wear when you think about him, R, I’m not even fucking kidding. You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not thinking about him,” Grantaire protests, but even to him it sounds pathetic. Eponine raises her eyes to the ceiling and kicks harder, not even bothering to dignify it with a response, so he swallows and soldiers on. “It’s not—I’m not—”

“If he’s been reincarnated,” she says matter-of-factly, “he’ll appear at some point.”

Grantaire can feel the bitter laugh rising in his throat, has to fight to keep it down. (That’s not the person he is anymore, that cynic, he’s worked too hard to shake it off to relapse now, he won’t, he won’t, he _won’t._ ) “So you say.”

“For God’s fucking sake, R—have you forgotten who we’re talking about? _As if_ he would sit around on his ass doing nothing with the state of the world as it is—he’ll be out and about soon, give him some credit, come _on_.” Eponine tilts her head back and swallows, sets her beer down, then stretches like a cat. “I’m gonna get another one from the fridge. You want?”

Grantaire _does_ want a beer, he does, but he thinks of blond curls, and blue eyes, and shakes his head no.

(He’s not that person anymore, he’s not, he’s _not_ , he’ll never go back to being that person again. He _won’t_.)

Eponine slides off the counter with a sigh.

“He’ll be here, R. Just wait and see.”

*

Combeferre says there are books about the June Rebellion—“a good sixteen of them”—at the newly-opened library in town.

He brings a few over to the apartment when he’s done with university for the day and spreads them out over the coffee table while Grantaire makes tea for the both of them. It’s an odd feeling, having Combeferre read out snippets of their lives like they haven’t been through every single agonizing detail of that revolution, and Grantaire isn’t quite sure what he feels about it.

“I thought this information would come in handy for this week’s meeting about the upcoming demonstration,” Combeferre says, taking a sip of his tea. “Bahorel and Bossuet were saying something about dressing up as revolutionaries? They were probably joking, of course, but it _is_ coming up to four years since we all came back together, and, well…”

Something aches in Grantaire’s chest, low and painful, but he forces a smile anyway and puts his cup down, doing his best to ignore the second part of that sentence. “Thanks. It’s a good idea, honestly, we might just do it. Create interest, whatever—don’t people love themed protests?”

Combeferre laughs. “If you say so.”

“No, hear me out,” Grantaire says over him, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk that Normal Grantaire—1832 Grantaire—would be proud of. He stands up with an elaborate gesture, waves his hands in the air with a dramatic flourish. “We wear cravats and shit, we wave an old French flag, if Eponine brings Gavroche, he gets to sit on my shoulders and yell _‘Vive la Republique!’_ …”

“You know, R,” Combeferre says so softly it can barely be considered an interruption, “he’d be proud of you.”

Grantaire’s words catch in his throat, and for a second he can’t breathe.

“Bit of an exaggeration, that,” he says, a few seconds later, far too long to pass off as casual.

“You single-handedly revived his life’s work,” Combeferre says gently. “This is what he’d be doing, fighting for a better world. Don’t you think that deserves some recognition?”

The room is silent for a moment. Grantaire can’t bring himself to look up at Combeferre, just stares at the coffee mug in his hand. It’s well-worn—a chip in the rim from when he’d elbowed it painting for his gallery show, the handle nicked from the time he’d raised a cup of cocoa to the success of Les Amis’ first big project and ended up knocking it all over the floor. His reflection gazes back at him from the depths of his tea, unrecognisable.

Grantaire remembers looking into the bottom of a bottle like that—remembers hearing the words that made him want to quit in the first place. Remembers the person who said them.

 _I didn’t start out doing it for a better world,_ he wants to say, but the words stick in his throat.

“Thanks, ‘Ferre,” he says at last. Tries for a carefree smile, probably ends up with something bitter and ironic. “We’ll think about it again, yeah?”

Combeferre gets to his feet and starts gathering up the books, one by one. “Sure. I’ve got to get back now, Courf’s probably starving.” He shakes his head fondly, then blinks and turns his attention back to Grantaire, grabbing his coat off the couch. “If you do want to work on that French Revolution theme, text me—we should probably get Feuilly in on it, too, for the logistics.”

“Yeah, well.” Grantaire gets up to open the door for him. Breathes deep, tells himself to act normal. He tries to sound unaffected. “I’ll call you again. The way you’re talking about it, you sound like you want to rebuild our barricade.”

Combeferre grins, a gleam of anticipation coming into his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be fantastic?”

“God, no.” Grantaire rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too, despite the ache in his chest and the lump in his throat. Just a little. “Have you already forgotten what it felt like? Want to taste the bullets on your tongue again?”

“R?”

“Yeah.”

“I miss him too, you know?” Combeferre’s smile is sad and kind, gentle in a way that somehow, _somehow_ manages to make Grantaire’s nose sour with the warning of imminent tears. “We all do. Don’t be too hard on yourself, all right?”

Grantaire barely manages to nod and close the door before he sinks onto the floor.

He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, leans his head against the door. He can hear Combeferre’s footsteps echoing down the corridor—lighter and lighter as he gets farther and farther away. Focuses on breathing.

 _Come back,_ he thinks desperately into the void, the cold of the hard linoleum floor seeping into him. _Come back, please. I’ve tried to see things from your perspective—I’ve done it all, I’ve done everything you would do. Come back. Please._

There is, as he expects, no answering call.

The floor tiles he and Eponine picked out have a pattern on them, some kind of modern black-and-white chequered design. Grantaire stares at the black squares until his vision blurs, swallows hard.

 _I did this for you,_ he thinks. _I’m readying your people so you have someone to fight with when you come back. I won’t let it be you against the world again, fighting alone with your back to the wall and your broken revolution at your feet—at the very least, you’ll have us._

_You’ll have me. When you come back._

Eponine’s going to be home any time now. It won’t do for her to catch him like this. Grantaire fumbles, swipes a hand over his face, somehow manages to get to his feet.

He shuts his eyes and leans against the cool paintwork of the door.

 _Please come back,_ he thinks desperately. _Please come back._

*

(He doesn’t.)

*

“…and that’s basically it,” Grantaire concludes. “If anyone’s free to help hand out flyers next Thursday, just text either me or Combeferre, and remember to get your costumes by the eighteenth if you’re coming for the themed demonstration…”

“Same time, same place next week, bring your friends, blah blah blah, you know the drill!” Bossuet yells over the sounds of chairs scraping the floorboards. “There’s a sign-up sheet for the demonstration up front if you’re interested in helping us organise it, put down your names!”

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Grantaire relaxes, slowly moves over to the bar and leans against it, shutting his eyes. The white noise around him doesn’t let up; the sounds of people cheerily saying their goodbyes mingle with the creak of the door as it swings open and closed a dozen different times, and he finds himself wishing—not for the first time tonight—that he was anywhere but here.

“Good turnout tonight,” a voice comments, and he opens his eyes to the girl at the counter, who grins and holds up a glass. “What do you want?”

“Hey, Musichetta.” Grantaire offers her a tired smile. “Warm water?”

“Not beer?” she says with a wink. Behind them, Grantaire can hear the sound of the door opening. The chatter fades away into the distance.

“Don’t tempt me,” Grantaire murmurs, but he gives her a much more genuine grin as he accepts the glass of water she hands him. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll say—much busier than it was our last lifetime, wasn’t it?” she says dryly. “You’re doing good, R, really drawing them in. Next thing you know, this place won’t be big enough to hold them all.”

Grantaire lets out a resigned breath. “Thanks. I guess we’re trying.”

“Where’d my old Grantaire go?” Musichetta teases, easy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “You never used to be so despondent.”

The door opens again with a creak, sending a rush of cold air into the otherwise warm room. “I never used to be sober, either,” Grantaire says, then winks back despite himself. “Alcohol is a marvellous invention, don’t you think, darling?”

“As a bartender, I’m inclined to agree,” she says, then affectionately ruffles his hair from across the counter. “You’re doing fine.”

“Thank you,” he says, smiling, then turns back around with the glass in his hand, raised halfway to his lips.

Just in time to catch a flash of red through the closing door.

*

Every hair on Grantaire’s body stands on end.

 _It’s not him,_ he tells himself. _It can’t be him, what are the odds?_ But somehow, something about this whole situation makes his heart pound, makes him rush for the door and shoulder it open. _It’s not him._ The wind bites at him, icy after the familiar warmth of the café—it doesn’t stop him from running into the street. _It can’t be him._

Except, of course, it is.

*

He’s standing on a street corner. Shoulders hunched, a downward tilt to his chin Grantaire’s never seen on him before—his fingers curled in on themselves, arms hanging loosely by his sides. His eyes are fixed on the café window.

Grantaire doesn’t have to follow his line of sight to know the words he must be reading, to see the battered poster still holding out against the wind, four years faded.

_LES AMIS DE L’ ABC LOOKING FOR MEMBERS._

And then that gaze drops to Grantaire.

Enjolras’ eyes widen. Abruptly, he turns away, and Grantaire panics, sucks in a breath all at once and pounds across the street, not caring about the cars coming his way, ignoring the angry honks and screeching of tyres that rent the air around him. He focuses on blue eyes and gold curls. Everything else is irrelevant.

_Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras._

_I won’t lose you again,_ he thinks.

Dimly, he’s aware of Joly’s voice yelling for him from the café doorway, the rising tone of Courfeyrac’s confused tenor as he asks what’s going on, but he strides forward until he’s close enough to touch, reaches an arm out and whirls him around midstep.

He’s lighter this lifetime, Enjolras, stumbles and nearly falls—Grantaire catches him, breath catching in his throat, and then they’re standing there with Grantaire’s hands steady on Enjolras’ shoulders and their eyes on each other and—

(His eyes are so _blue_.)

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers, and his voice breaks.

Something is very wrong. Enjolras never speaks like that, never talks with anything other than steely determination and righteous fury. His coat is worn—patched at the elbows, more dirty maroon than red; the bags under his eyes are almost bruised purple, his skin sallow. Grantaire swallows the panic rising in his chest.

 _“_ Enjolras _,”_ he manages to get out. His heart thumps hard against his ribcage. “You’re— _late_.”

“I wasn’t going to show up at all,” Enjolras says quietly, and closes his eyes.

(It almost sounds as if—)

Enjolras sways a little. Grantaire tightens his grip on his shoulders, holds him upright. (This is wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —Enjolras never sways. Enjolras never falters.) His head dips a little, curls falling forward into his face, and Grantaire can’t stop looking—can’t stop focusing on the sight of him, the solidness of him, the warmth, the fact that he exists, that he’s alive, that he’s _here_.

_I wasn’t going to show up at all._

Something clicks in Grantaire’s brain.

“How long have you known,” he says, voice low.

Enjolras’ jaw tightens just a fraction, despite everything. It’s so familiar, the stubborn set of his chin, the way he raises his head, that Grantaire loses concentration for a second, has to take a breath before he can focus again. “I didn’t want to burden you.”

Grantaire grits his teeth. “ _How long_.”

For a second, he thinks Enjolras is going to argue (he looks up to face Grantaire fully, and his expression is defiant, his mouth set in a grim line) but all at once his shoulders slump under Grantaire’s palms, and all the fight goes out of him.

“Three years.”

Grantaire feels as if all the wind’s been knocked out of him—like he’s been punched in the stomach. Somewhere behind them, a car horn blares, loud and angry. A bicycle bell rings. Vaguely, Grantaire thinks he can hear Marius’ concerned voice drifting over the traffic. Soft, like snow.

“We’ve been waiting,” he manages. He has to fight to keep his voice level. “God, Enjolras. We’ve been waiting for you.”

He more means, I’ve _been waiting for you._

Enjolras shuts his eyes again, swallows. He reeks of whiskey. ( _Enjolras_. Drinking.) Even now, even halfway in Grantaire’s arms, he’s shivering—Grantaire can feel it through the worn red jacket. He lets go of Enjolras’ shoulder, takes his hand. Enjolras doesn’t move; his fingers are icy cold. Grantaire’s heart squeezes.

“You’re freezing,” he says.

Enjolras’ eyes move back up to Grantaire’s. Exhausted now, almost pleading. (It makes Grantaire’s throat close up—makes his stomach churn.) His chin dips, uncertain in a way Grantaire’s never seen him.

Never thought he’d see him.

“Why on earth,” says Enjolras, his voice low, “would you wait for me?”

“Because we’re not us without you,” says a voice from behind them.

*

Grantaire turns around to find all of Les Amis gathered in a knot on the pavement. Expressions solemn.

“Welcome back, Chief,” Combeferre says quietly.

Enjolras is standing very still. His fingers clench into fists by his sides, then unclench. Grantaire thinks he can see them trembling. He releases his grip and steps back.

“I led you to your deaths,” Enjolras says.

“We chose to die,” Jehan murmurs, and smiles something sad and sweet, all at once.

Grantaire feels it when the first flakes of snow start to fall—landing light and wet on his bare arms, his shoulders. No one stirs. On the outskirts of the group, Joly’s holding on to Grantaire’s coat, Bossuet beside him; Musichetta has a hand on both their shoulders, still as snow. She catches Grantaire’s eye.

Enjolras still hasn’t moved. His eyes are glittering blue. “I—” he starts. Looking lost. Looking completely at sea. He looks as if he doesn’t know what to think. As if all of this—all of them like this—is completely unexpected.

Courfeyrac takes a step forward and opens his arms.

Enjolras’ face crumples as he steps right into them.

*

_(Three months later)_

“I didn’t think it could be like this,” Enjolras says later.

“Like what?”

They’re all at their usual table in the Musain, coats draped over chairs and colours muted in the warm light of the old-fashioned lamps. Across from them, Courfeyrac’s smiling at something Combeferre’s saying, gaze warm with genuine affection; Eponine’s next to Musichetta, grinning sharply at Joly and Bossuet attempting to learn a drinking song Bahorel’s teaching them. Enjolras glances up from his drink, seems to take it all in. Grantaire watches him.

“All of us together,” Enjolras says. “Again.”

There’s a new deep-red jacket hung neatly over the back of his chair—a present from all of them. Grantaire’s own slightly-faded green coat is slung over the laptop bag hanging next to it; out of the corner of his eye, he can see the edge of his sketchbook peeking out of the front pocket. (Ideas for his next exhibition.) 

“I always thought it’d be like this,” he says honestly. “I mean, I never pictured it any other way.”

Enjolras looks back down at his drink. His curls fall into his face. “I didn’t think I deserved it,” he says quietly.

At the other end of the table, Cosette laughs; Marius’ ears are bright red. Feuilly leaves the table to order another round of drinks. Grantaire’s heart is in his throat; he takes a pull of his cocoa, breathes in, and, before he can think better of it, takes Enjolras’ hand.

(He doesn’t mean it to mean anything until he does—means it to mean _you still have us_ until he realises he wants to mean _you still have me._ )

Enjolras starts, but he doesn’t pull away. His gaze settles on Grantaire’s face, cautious.

Grantaire laces their fingers together. “You do,” he says. His heart is pounding steady rhythm against his ribcage, but he doesn’t stop. “You always have. Fuck, Apollo, you were fighting for _us_. If that isn’t _deserving—_ ”

“You all died.”

“We’re all alive _now_ ,” Grantaire says. “ _Honestly_.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a second. He sets his jaw, drops his gaze from Grantaire’s eyes to his cup. Grantaire lets out a breath and lets go—

Enjolras catches his hand.

Grantaire’s breath stutters to a stop in his throat.

“You idiot,” he says before he can stop himself. “ _Fucking_ —we waited for you for _so long_.”

“I apologise,” Enjolras says. He’s looking at Grantaire again now. (Blue, blue eyes.) “But I—” he swallows, visibly. His jaw clenches. His gaze falls onto their entwined fingers; Grantaire swears he can feel Enjolras’ shaking.

“I’m here now. If you want me. –If you’ll permit it?”

The door swings open, bringing with it an icy gust of wind; two customers, bundled in their warmest coats, hurry into the warmth, expressions of consternation melting into ones of relief. A great cheer rises from the far end of the table as Bossuet and Joly manage a sing-through of the drinking song in surprisingly tuneful two-part harmony; Bahorel’s voice loudly calls for an encore, and Musichetta’s belly-laugh is warm and content.

Grantaire feels the sting in his nose, in his eyes. The Musain goes blurry for a moment, the warm colours smudging into each other before he blinks again. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand. Swallows.

“Of course, Apollo,” he says, and hopes his smile doesn’t come out as wobbly as it feels. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been lurking in the fandom for like three years, so I thought it was probably time to contribute, whoops. Thanks for reading!


End file.
